Solitude Questioned
by catharticone
Summary: Edward adores his wife and young daughter and the life they have helped him to create. However, he has one lingering worry: Eventually his little girl will realize that her father and grandparents are unique in many ways. This is an outtake/pre-epilogue for my story,"Touching Solitude."
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: The _Twilight _world is the property of Stephenie Meyer. I'm just borrowing, and no infringement is intended.

**Note:**_This is a follow-up of sorts to my story, "Touching Solitude." It is set after the final chapter but before the epilogue. Thank you to everyone who inquired about this and provided the inspiration for me to post it!_

* * *

Bright May sunshine bathed the meadow. The light caught Charlotte's coppery hair as she twirled and leapt about, the exuberance of childhood suffusing her with delight. Her bare little feet danced over the carpet of soft grass and tiny white flowers.

Bella and I sat beneath a cottonwood tree at the edge of the meadow. She laughed softy as she watched Charlotte prance about. I plucked several blossoms and tucked them into my wife's hair.

Bella smiled at me, touching the petals then running her fingers over my cheek. I stroked her silky hair. Even in the shade it was glossy and richly colored, the mahogany tones accentuated by the paleness of the flowers. I added another blossom, kissing her lightly before returning my gaze to our ebullient daughter.

"Where does she get the energy?" Bella asked with an amused shake of her head.

"It comes with being four years old," I replied, rubbing gently at her back.

"Someone should figure out how to bottle that," Bella responded with a sigh of longing. She offered me a smile of gratitude as my fingers eased some of the soreness from her muscles.

"I'm sorry you have to go through this," I said.

"I know. You say that every month." She rested her head against my shoulder. "That's very sweet. At least it's not as bad as it was before Charlotte was born."

"Even so," I acknowledged, "I wish there were more I could do to ease the discomfort."

She looked up at me, our eyes meeting as the subtext of my words reverberated through both of us. We had understood four years ago that our daughter's birth was akin to a miracle; it was a wondrous fluke of fate. Some remnant of my human existence had remained, and this had enabled Bella to conceive. The timing had been perfect, and her body, amazingly, had been receptive.

The physician in me comprehended fully that such a phenomenon could not occur again. But the husband and father in me harbored a secret hope that it might. Bella had never spoken her thoughts aloud, but the wistful look in her eyes when her cycle began again each month told me that she held a tiny thread of hope, too. After four years, that hope was little more than a faint glimmer; we both knew that it could not come to fruition.

We adored Charlotte. She was a wonderful child: bright, inquisitive, helpful, gentle, and affectionate. We could not imagine a more perfect daughter. Yet there were times when I knew we both wished it were possible to have another child. I recalled with poignant clarity the day Charlotte had pressed her tiny hand over Bella's abdomen while we were visiting with the Webers. Charlotte looked from her mother to Angela, whose belly was swollen with the new life she carried.

Curiosity and longing had filled my daughter's green eyes as she asked, "Momma, when will you get a baby in here?"

That incident had occurred over a year ago, but the momentary flicker of pain that had overtaken Bella still remained within my memory. She had quickly suppressed it, focusing instead on her love for Charlotte as she replied, "You're Momma's most precious baby" as she enveloped our little girl in her arms.

Thankfully, the vicissitudes of Charlotte's three-year-old mind had drawn her attention away from the conversation, but her question—and Bella's expression—lingered in my memory. For some days after that incident, Bella had emphasized how fortunate we were to have Charlotte and how no other parents were as lucky was we were. It was true, and I knew there was no point in dwelling on what could not be.

Charlotte skipped across the meadow, her curls bobbing brightly as she approached us.

"Momma! You look like a faerie queen!" she exclaimed joyfully, her tiny hands hovering near the flowers in Bella's hair.

My wife chuckled. "Then you must be the faerie princess."

Quickly I plucked a handful of the small posies and tucked them into my daughter's hair. She giggled with glee as Bella pulled her into her arms and kissed her cheeks.

"Come here, my little wood sprite," I said, lifting Charlotte to swing her around. "My goodness, it looks like you can fly, too!"

She laughed and grasped at my hands. I was standing partially in the sunlight now. I wore a straw hat and a long-sleeved linen shirt, but my hands glittered in the sunshine.

"I'm magical, just like you!" she said.

"You're magical all on your own," I replied, pulling her close to kiss her brow as her little arms wrapped around my neck.

She nuzzled into me. The coolness of my skin felt natural to her, as did Carlisle's and Esme's. She had never questioned the difference in temperature between her mother and the rest of the family. The sparkle of our skin, however, was something she had noticed when she was very young. Her tiny fingers would try to catch the bits of light reflecting from my skin when I was in the sunshine.

I still covered my body entirely whenever we were around others, of course, as did my parents. Bella and I had decided almost four years ago to treat the unique condition of my skin as something special, something that was for family only. We had conveyed this to Charlotte in as natural a way as possible, and fortunately she seemed to understand. She had never mentioned the special glimmer she saw on her daddy's and grandparents' faces or arms to anyone outside our family.

Bella and I knew that at some point Charlotte would begin to question the differences. It was inevitable that one day she would ask why I was colder than her mother or Angela or the Weber children, what made me sparkle, and why I never ate or drank. Someday she would likely discover that I didn't sleep, either.

Bella and I had not reached a firm decision about how we would respond to these queries. I suppose we both hoped that when the time came we would know what to say, based upon the situation. Still, it was a lingering concern. Thus far, Charlotte had never said anything to raise questions among our friends, but she was a child, and despite her sweet, loving nature unintended words could escape her.

At least here, in the meadow, we could all enjoy the warm, sunny day with abandon. Charlotte squealed with delight when I placed her little feet upon mine then took her hands gently as I began to waltz.

"Ooh, Daddy, look!" Charlotte cooed, pointing toward the far edge of the meadow.

I stopped to see what had captured her attention. Several birds were pecking delicately at a few cookie crumbs she had left as she bounded about while eating the snack Bella had brought for her.

Charlotte loved all animals, but winged creatures seemed to fascinate her the most.

"He's so pretty!" she exclaimed softly.

Her eyes were fixed on the brightly colored bird in the center of the little group. His saffron breast and scarlet face made him stand out from the dull, brown sparrows clustered near him.

"He's called a tanager," I told her.

"A nanager?" she attempted.

I chuckled. "Tanager. We're lucky to spot one. I've only seen a few in all the time I've lived here."

She gave a little, breathy exhale; I knew she was excited with this new find. She loved looking at the Audubon bird book Esme had given us two Christmases ago.

"We'll look him up when we get home, all right?" I offered.

She nodded enthusiastically as her gaze remained on the beautiful little bird.

Bella watched us with a loving smile. After a few minutes I swung my daughter back up into my arms, continuing the dance with broader steps. When I swept past Bella, she held out her hand. I paused her help her to her feet, then pulled her close with one arm around her waist. She kissed my cheek then took Charlotte's hand.

I nudged Bella's feet onto mine and continued dancing, languidly now so that the motions would not be jarring. Holding my two girls in my arms, gazing at my beautiful wife and darling daughter, I felt elation wash over me. I was a lucky man indeed.

We returned home before sunset. Charlotte was chattering happily, as she often did after any sort of excursion. As we drove along, she told us about each butterfly she had seen, and about the sparrows and mockingbirds and bright tanager… However, when we passed the turnoff to Carlisle's and Esme's house, she paused.

"When will Gramma and Grandpa come home?" she asked.

"The day after tomorrow," I replied.

"When's that?" she persisted.

I knew that young children had very little sense of time. It was always interesting attempting to explain such things to my daughter. I often tried to phrase my explanations in terms that she could relate to.

"We have to have supper tonight," I began, "then you'll go to bed. You'll have breakfast, lunch, and supper tomorrow before you go to bed again. When you wake up, it will be time for Grandma and Grandpa to come home."

"With shells," Charlotte said hopefully, remembering that the pretty whelks on her windowsill came from our vacation to the coast last month. We had explained that her grandparents went to the same place.

"Sweetheart," Bella said, turning to look at our daughter, "remember, it's not polite to ask for gifts. When Grandma and Grandpa get home, give them hugs and kisses and tell them you missed them. Don't ask if they've brought you anything."

Charlotte was really too young to retain her mother's words, but both Bella and I tried to instill good manners in her. We knew that eventually she would learn to be gracious. She was truly a sweet child, and she had been quite good about saying "thank you" for some time.

"Yes, Momma," Charlotte acquiesced. However, her eyes sparkled with anticipation. She knew that her grandparents always brought her treats when they traveled. They doted on her, but I couldn't fault them for it. It was difficult for me to keep from spoiling her at every possible opportunity.

As we neared our home, Charlotte's thoughts shifted. "Daddy," she said, "can we pick some peaches?"

Bella had promised to prepare a peach cobbler with supper. Our orchard was bearing beautiful fruit, and my talented wife tried to use as much as possible while it was ripe and succulent.

"Are you feeling up to it?" I asked Bella quietly.

She nodded. "Of course. But I think I'll leave you and Charlotte to the task of gathering the peaches."

As I pulled the Cadillac into the garage, I took her hand, saying, "I'll draw a warm bath for you, love, and you can have a nice soak while Charlotte and I are in the orchard."

Bella smiled. "That sounds wonderful."

Soon I had filled the tub with steaming water and some gently scented bath oils. I kissed Bella on the cheek as she stepped into the bathroom. She thanked me, and I closed the door behind her, knowing she would want some privacy at this particular time.

I lingered for a few moments in the hallway, until I heard her slip into the water with a little contented sigh. Then I hurried downstairs, where my daughter waited by the door eagerly. She already had a basket clutched in her tiny hands.

I scooped her up into my arms, enjoying her little giggles as I carried her through the yard and into the small grove on the edge of our property. The peaches were perfectly ripe, and Charlotte could not resist eating one as she sat upon my shoulders reaching for the higher branches.

The peach she chose was a particularly juicy one, and by the time she had finished enjoying it, her face and hands were covered in sticky, sweet juice. My shirt had not fared much better. I didn't mind in the least. My daughter's laughter was all that mattered.

* * *

By the time we returned to the house, we were both in need of a bath. Bella had finished in the tub and was in our room dressing. I poked my head through the doorway, Charlotte still upon my shoulders.

Bella chuckled when she saw us. "It looks like the peaches are very ripe," she commented.

"And very 'ummy!" Charlotte agreed.

"I'll give her a bath," I said.

Bella nodded. "Thank you. I'll get started on that cobbler."

Half an hour later, my daughter was clean, cheeks rosy from the warm water. Her hair remained damp, but the evening was quite warm, so I dressed her in a little chemise and left her feet bare. She scampered off to join Bella in the kitchen while I prepared another bath for myself.

I had learned to enjoy spending time in the tub. While sitting in the steamy water with Bella between my legs was still my favorite way to bathe, I found some pleasure in relaxing alone, lying with my head against the rim. Sometimes I allowed my entire body to sink into the water, submerging myself completely. The stillness and complete quiet were very calming.

I rested on the bottom of the rub with my eyes closed, allowing my mind to wander back over the pleasant day in the meadow. I did not realize anything was amiss until I heard my name called. Through the water, the sound was faint.

I sat up. The moment I inhaled, I sensed an acrid smell. I inhaled once again and immediately realized that there was smoke somewhere in the house. I leaped from the tub, pulling on a robe then hurrying from the bathroom, all of my senses now attuned to the happenings within the house.

I heard Charlotte first. She was crying, her little heart beating frantically. "Momma!" she sobbed.

"No," Bella said sharply, "stay there!"

"Momma!" my daughter cried again.

"Wait right there for Daddy. Don't move!" Bella commanded hoarsely. "Edward!" she called.

As I dashed down the stairs, I saw smoke billowing from the kitchen. Charlotte stood outside the doorway, her eyes wide and her little body rigid with fear. Bella was standing inside the room, near the window, trying to extinguish the flames engulfing the curtains and licking up the wall toward the ceiling. She was frantically batting at the fire with the tablecloth.

"Go outside," I said to Charlotte.

"But Momma—"

"Now!" I shouted. I saw her begin to move away from the doorway as I ran into the kitchen.

"Bella," I cried.

She looked at me with true terror in her eyes. In an instant I had scooped her up into my arms and deposited her in the foyer. "Get outside," I said briskly.

I hesitated for a single moment before grabbing the heavy rug from the foyer. My thoughts raced with dire possibilities, but above them all I knew that I had to keep my family and home safe. I darted back into the kitchen, the flames crackling all around me.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Note: **Just a reminder that this is an outtake for "Touching Solitude," which is an AU tale set in the early 1900s.

* * *

I was able to smother the flames fairly quickly, never more grateful for my enhanced speed than during those moments when I fought to preserve my home and protect my wife and daughter.

It wasn't until I stood in the smoke-filled room, eyes searching for anything still smoldering, that I realized I could smell blood beneath the thick odor of smoke. The room remained hazy. I looked down, and then I noticed the broken glass littering the floor. I was standing on several large shards, but of course they had not penetrated by stony skin. Bright crimson smears streaked the area between the burnt wall and the doorway.

I remembered with a pang that Bella and Charlotte had both been barefoot. Sparing another moment to ensure that the fire was fully extinguished, I stepped from the kitchen. I could hear slightly labored breaths and rough coughs from Bella and Charlotte; the smoke had entered their lungs. The front door was open, but they remained in the house, huddled together just inside the door. I lifted both in my arms and carried them out to the porch.

My first priority was their breathing. I sat down, Charlotte in my lap and Bella at my side, my arms cradling both.

"Try to breathe slowly," I encouraged, my voice shaky. I rubbed a hand over Charlotte's back as she coughed again.

She twisted her body, her little arms coming around me to hold on as tightly as she could. "Daddy," she whimpered.

"Sshh, darling, it's all right now," I said as calmly as I could.

Bella was leaning heavily against me. Her heart was still thudding, and her breathing was ragged. Her hand lifted to rest over Charlotte's back, then she raised her terrified eyes to mine.

"Edward, is… she all right?" she rasped. Her face was ashen, and I could feel the tremors that shook her.

I took several long seconds to assess my daughter before answering. I rested my hand over her cheek, feeling a slight heaviness in my chest and a deeper ache in my feet.

Then I lifted her little body so that I could press my ear against her chest, listening carefully to her lungs. While there was clearly some irritation, there did not appear to be any significant damage.

I lowered her into my lap again, wrapping my arm securely around her. She was still crying softly. As she curled against me, I kissed her cheek then moved my gaze to Bella. I gave her a nod. She exhaled slowly in relief before her eyes moved down to my lap.

There was blood on my thighs. Charlotte's feet were smeared with red. A glance at my wife's feet confirmed that she had been cut, too. However, I knew she would insist that I examine our daughter first.

"Let me see you feet, sweetheart," I said as I gently shifted Charlotte and lifted her ankles. She had several deep lacerations on her soles, and glass remained in two of the wounds. I winced, again feeling the ache in my own feet, knowing that her pain was much worse.

Fortunately none of the wounds bled profusely. But I would need to remove the glass and clean each laceration thoroughly.

"Bella?" I questioned, nodding toward her feet.

She swallowed. I could tell that she was now beginning to smell the blood. "I'm all right," she said softly. "Take care of her. Please."

Bella's legs were curled beside her. I could see the bottoms of her feet well enough to determine that her wounds bled only minimally now. I spared a few moments to listen to her breathing. It was somewhat harsher than Charlotte's, and her voice was ragged. Her throat was undoubtedly sore from the smoke inhalation. I needed to look at it, but I understood that my wife would not permit me to treat her until our daughter had been attended to.

I began to shift Charlotte into Bella's arms, intending to stand.

"Daddy!" she cried, clinging to me tighter.

"It's all right, baby," I said. "I'm just going to go inside and open all the windows to let the smoky smell out."

"No, Daddy, there's fire!" she sobbed.

"No, angel, the fire's out," I explained. "All the flames are gone."

Bella was nodding, grasping Charlotte's tiny hands. "It's all right, honey—"

But Charlotte buried her head beneath my chin, shaking again. "'M sorry," she mumbled between sobs.

"Darling, you have nothing to be sorry for," I replied.

Her sobs grew stronger. I kissed her hair and continued rubbing her back. I looked at Bella questioningly. "What happened?" I murmured.

"I was at the stove," she explained quietly, "and she was at the table. She must have knocked over that large crystal bowl I'd put the peaches in. I heard the crash and I turned to look, then I began cleaning it up… I don't know how it happened…" She took a shaky breath then coughed. "When I turned back to the stove, the curtain was on fire. The flame must have leapt up…I don't know… " Tears filled her eyes.

"It's no one's fault," I assured her, then I lifted Charlotte's chin so that she would look at me. "Did you hear me, angel? This wasn't your fault." I kissed her forehead.

She blinked up at me, sniffling, then she hugged me again. Her heart was still beating very quickly; she remained upset. Bella reached for Charlotte as I passed her over. This time our daughter did not protest. She simply clung to her mother as tightly as she had clung to me.

I hurried inside to open all the windows, pulling on a pair of trousers and a shirt while I was upstairs. Then I inspected the kitchen once more to assure myself that I had smothered all the embers. I spared a few moments to sweep up the broken glass, dumping it into the refuse bin before returning to the porch.

I carried my girls inside, swiftly going up to our bedroom. I didn't want Bella to walk until I had treated her feet. Charlotte appeared calmer by the time I set her and Bella on the bed. I retrieved my Gladstone bag from the hallway then returned to my family.

Bella was sitting up against the pillows I'd placed at the headboard, holding Charlotte at her side. I removed the items I would require from my bag then sat down, placing my little girl's feet in my lap.

"This is going to sting a bit," I cautioned.

Charlotte flinched, her brow puckering. "Don't hurt me, Daddy."

"Oh, precious," I said, caressing her ankle with my thumb, "you know your Daddy never wants to see you hurting. But I have to clean these cuts. You know we've talked about that before." Like most young children, Charlotte had gotten her share of scrapes, despite my best efforts to keep her from all harm. She had endured the bite of antiseptic numerous times.

"So they don't get 'fectered," she recalled soberly.

"That's right," I confirmed gently. "We don't want these to get infected. That could make you sick."

The image of Bella's leg when she had suffered from septacaemia would never fade from my flawless memory. I was always careful to clean cuts assiduously.

Charlotte's gave me a somber nod. "'Kay, Daddy."

Bella wrapped her arms around her and pressed a kiss to her crown. "You're such a brave girl."

"I don't want your feet to get 'fectered, either, Momma," Charlotte said, then she looked at me again. "Don't let her get sick, Daddy."

"I'll take care of her as soon as I'm finished with you," I assured her. "Momma will be fine, I promise."

Charlotte blinked back tears as I carefully inspected each foot and used tweezers to extract the bits of glass embedded in her skin. I worked as quickly as possible, but I could still feel twinges prickle on the soles of my own feet. The prickling was sharper when I began cleaning the lacerations with carbolic solution. I knew Charlotte was experiencing considerably greater pain. However, she did not cry out; she merely sniffled as tears streaked her cheeks.

I bandaged my daughter's tiny feet, kissing the tops of her toes as I finished with each foot. Then I examined her legs, arms, and hands carefully in case she had suffered any burns. She had some smoky smudges on her skin, but aside from the cuts she appeared uninjured.

Still, I wanted to check her lungs again. I removed my stethoscope and listened intently at her chest and back as she inhaled and exhaled numerous times. With relief, I said, "Everything sounds fine. Let me look at your throat, sweetheart."

Charlotte opened her mouth obediently as Bella tilted her head back. There was some redness and irritation in Charlotte's pharynx, but there was no swelling. She was coughing less, too. As I rested my fingers against her neck, I noticed that my throat felt mildly dry and vaguely sore.

I kissed the tip of Charlotte's nose when I was finished, telling her, "It might feel a little sore when you swallow. Tell me if it starts to feel worse."

"Yes, Daddy," she agreed. "Now fix Momma, please."

"Absolutely," I replied.

Charlotte moved to snuggle at Bella's side while I examined her throat. While it showed more irritation than Charlotte's, there was no swelling. I gave Bella a nod of relief then listened to her lungs. There were no significant bronchospasms or bronchoconstriction, but I would check her periodically over the next few hours to ensure there were no lingering issues.

"Momma got burned," Charlotte informed me as I set aside my stethoscope.

"It's not bad," Bella said, holding out her hand to me.

I found a burn on the inside of her wrist. It hadn't blistered, but the skin was reddened and very tender.

"Were you burned elsewhere?" I asked, my eyes now raking over her.

"No," she responded, "I don't think so."

"All right." I squeezed her hand gently. "Let me get your feet taken care of."

Bella had sustained several more lacerations than Charlotte, and the shards were embedded more deeply in her skin. I removed each piece then applied the carbolic thoroughly. Bella's sharp inhalations told me that the process was painful, but she did not make any other noises. She simply sat with Charlotte's hand in hers, her grip never tightening.

After I had bandaged Bella's feet, I applied salve to her burn. Then I filled a basin with warm, soapy water and so that I could wipe the soot from my wife's and child's faces and hands. Now that the crisis had passed and her injuries were treated, Charlotte was growing sleepy, her little body exhausted from the event.

However, as I sat down on the edge of the bed, washcloth in my hand, Charlotte's drowsy gaze lowered to my feet. I had not taken the time to put on shoes; my feet remained bare.

"Daddy," Charlotte said, her eyes opening fully now, "your feets."

"Hmm?" I questioned, lifting my leg and rotating my ankle to inspect my sole. There was soot on my skin. "I'll wash them later, sweetheart," I said.

Charlotte's delicate little brow was deeply furrowed. "But Daddy," she began, scooting forward to touch my foot with her tiny finger, "you don't have cuts."

"Oh," I acknowledged, understanding that she must have been worried about me. "No, darling, I'm fine."

She shook her head, her curls bobbing. "But why, Daddy? Why don't you have cuts like Momma and me?" she persisted.

Bella glanced at me quickly then replied, "Because Daddy didn't step in any glass."

"Yes he did!" she said. "I saw him." Her finger lingered on my hard, smooth sole as her eyes rose to my face. Her brow remained pinched in confusion. "Daddy, I saw you standing in the glass. How come it didn't cut you?" She poked experimentally at my foot, her touch less tentative now.

Thinking back now, I realized that she'd had a clear view of me from her position in the hallway. She had watched as I walked over the jagged shards to get Bella, then as I stepped in them again to carry her from the kitchen.

Bella took a sharp breath then coughed. Her coughing continued, and her eyes began to water.

"Momma?" Charlotte questioned, her attention now on her mother.

Bella gave her a nod but could not speak yet.

"I'll get you some water, love," I said, hastening to the bathroom to fill a glass from the faucet.

I returned to sit beside her, rubbing a hand over her back as she sipped slowly. She was flushed now, a thin sheen of perspiration on her cheeks and brow. I reached for my stethoscope so that I could listen to her lungs again. I heard no worrisome sounds; the irritation was most likely in her throat.

Charlotte was pale, her small hand clasping Bella's skirt. As soon as Bella could take a steady breath, she said, "I'm all right, sweetie."

"You and Momma both need to rest," I said.

For the moment Charlotte seemed to have forgotten her question. I smoothed her hair with my hand and began humming softly. Both Charlotte and Bella appeared to enjoy the song I had created for my wife in the days following our first interactions. Charlotte grew drowsy again, and soon she had fallen asleep cradled in Bella's arms.

I shifted my daughter so that her head rested on the pillows then pulled Bella into my embrace. "Oh sweetheart," I murmured, kissing her hair.

She shuddered against me, and I smelled to salt of her tears. "I'm sorry," she whispered, then silent sobs shook her.

"Sshh," I soothed, "everything's fine. Charlotte will be all right; you kept her safe."

She shook her head. "It was my fault. I shouldn't have left the bowl so close to the edge of the table, and I should have been watching her—"

"No," I began, "if anyone is to blame, it's me. I should have been listening—"

She did not seem to hear me. "Oh Edward, what if you hadn't been home? What if—"

I pressed my hand to her cheek. "No what-ifs, love. It was an accident; things happen. There's no point in dwelling on it. The only thing that matters is that you and Charlotte are all right."

Her sobs subsided after a few minutes, but I continued to hold her and kiss her face and hair. Suddenly she drew in a sharp breath and looked up at me.

"Oh God," she said, touching my face with shaking fingers. "The fire… That's the one thing you've told me that can harm you—"

I shook my head. "Never in a situation like this," I told her quickly and firmly. "Fire can only harm one of my kind if we're… incapacitated, to a very significant degree. As long as I'm able to extinguish the flames, they can't hurt me."

She nodded in relief. However, as her hand moved automatically to stroke Charlotte's hair, her expression turned worried again. "What are we going to tell her?" she asked.

I knew she was referring to our daughter's comment about my skin. "I'm not sure," I replied honestly. "Perhaps she'll forget for the time being."

"Your daughter forget?" She gave me a wan smile. "I don't think so." With a sigh, she added, "I suppose we knew this day would come. I was just hoping we'd have a little longer."

I could hear her heart beating quickly.

I kissed her brow. "It'll be all right, love," I assured her.

However, the fresh tears shimmering in her eyes told me that my words had done little to soothe her fear.

* * *

_To be concluded..._


	3. Chapter 3

When Charlotte woke, she was uncomfortable. Her feet were painful, and her poor little head ached. My usually cheerful daughter was understandably irritable. I administered aspirin powder, which helped, but she remained fussy. Bella sat with her, keeping cool cloths over her forehead, until Charlotte finally slept again.

My wife and I had been given a short reprieve from the inevitable questioning. I still hoped that Charlotte might not remember the observation she'd made about my impenetrable skin once the morning came.

Bella was restless, too, and I knew that the soles of her feet were quite tender. However, she refused to accept any analgesics, wishing to remain fully alert in case our daughter needed her.

I wished to erase as many reminders of our traumatic evening as possible before Bella and Charlotte came downstairs again, so I spent much of the night cleaning the kitchen. I removed the charred curtains and scrubbed the soot from the windows and walls. I replaced several damaged boards then painted them. Bella would need to sew new curtains, but those could wait.

I checked on Bella and Charlotte throughout the night. Bella had finally fallen asleep just after eleven, her body curled around our daughter. Both slept until dawn, although their slumber was somewhat fitful.

Charlotte woke first. I kissed her brow then lifted her from the bed. I could feel that her headache had diminished, but her feet remained sore.

"Let's be quiet so that Mama can sleep a little longer," I said softly.

Charlotte nodded drowsily. "Potty, Daddy," she murmured.

She cuddled against my chest as I carried her down the hall and into the bathroom. I gathered towels while she attended to her needs, then I set her on the counter and turned on the taps in the bathtub. She still smelled of smoke, and I wanted to bathe her.

Charlotte remained fairly quiet as I washed her hair and gently ran the soapy cloth over her little arms and legs. I kept her feet out of the water, explaining that they needed to stay dry. I sang to her softly while I worked.

After I had carefully combed out her hair and dressed her in a loose summer frock, I unwrapped the bandages from her feet. She winced a little, but she said nothing as I examined the cuts then applied a very mild carbolic solution and fresh bandages.

"Let Daddy have a look at your throat?" I requested, touching her chin. I was worried that it had become more irritated; it wasn't like her to be so silent unless speaking was painful.

She opened her mouth obediently. Surprisingly, I found only mild irritation. I rested my hand softly against her neck. I sensed no specific discomfort, but perhaps it was something more subtle. "Does it hurt?" I asked.

She shook her head.

"You're being a quiet little mouse this morning," I commented gently. "You've barely made a squeak."

Her eyes met mine for a moment, then she lowered her gaze.

I lifted her chin so that she would look at me, offering her a loving smile. "Sweetheart, I know the fire was scary, but you're safe and Momma is safe, too. If you feel frightened, I want you to tell me; it's all right to be scared or upset."

"'M not scared, Daddy," she said, her voice very soft. Her eyes moved down again as her small hand rose to grasp lightly at my wrist.

"Then what are you thinking about, precious?" I caressed her soft cheek with my thumb.

Her tiny fingers moved over the back of my hand, then she lifted one of her feet. "Is the sparkles why you didn't get cut?" she asked. Her bright eyes peeped up at me, then she looked away quickly as though she had done something wrong. Was she worried that her query would anger me?

"Darling Charlotte," I said, kissing her brow, "would you look at me, please?"

She lifted her gaze; her eyes were wide. I could hear her heart beating quickly.

I smiled reassuringly then replied, "That is a very good question. You're such a smart girl to think of it. I'm glad you asked me, because I've wanted to tell you about it for some time."

"Really?" She was growing calmer, her innate curiosity creeping back now that she knew I was not upset with her.

I nodded. "Yes. But I needed to wait until you were a big girl and could understand about it."

"I'm a big girl now!" she replied, her voice stronger.

I smiled. "Yes, you are. And you're right that the sparkles are part of the reason the glass didn't cut my feet. My skin is different than yours."

"How?" This was one of her favorite questions.

I thought for a few moments before answering. "Do you remember that bright yellow and red bird that we saw in the meadow yesterday?"

"The nanager," she replied.

I chuckled softly. "Yes, the tanager. His feathers looked different than the other birds'."

She nodded. "He was so pretty."

"Yes, he was," I agreed. "Think of all of the many kinds of birds we've seen. Most are brown or gray, but sometimes we see one that has more colorful feathers. There's such variety in nature. There are so many different things." I waited to be certain she was following my reasoning. Her attention was rapt, so I continued. "There is a lot of variety among people, too. Momma has brown eyes, but Auntie Angela has blue eyes, and yours are green. Uncle Ben has black hair, but Rosemary's hair is auburn, and Benny's is blonde."

Charlotte touched her hair as I spoke, clearing thinking about my words.

I offered her another smile. "Your hair has such pretty waves, and when Momma rolls them for you they make beautiful curls that stay for a long time. But Momma's hair doesn't hold the curl; it stays straight." I paused for a few moments. "Just like you and Momma—and Angela, Ben, Benny, and Isabelle—all have different colors of eyes and different kinds of hair, you and I have different kinds of skin. Mine is harder than yours, so it doesn't get cut as easily."

"An' it has sparkles," she reminded me.

"It does, just like your hair has beautiful, shiny coppery bits in the light."

"But my skin doesn't have the sparkles."

"No, it doesn't."

Her little brow furrowed as she thought. "But Gramma and Grandpa has the sparkles. They have skin like yours?"

"Yes."

"But I got Momma's skin?"

"Yes, you have your mama's beautiful skin."

This explanation appeared to satisfy her, but I knew I needed to finish the discussion. I lifted her into my arms and carried her to her bedroom, where I settled on the bed with her in my lap. I pointed toward the shells on her windowsill.

"Do you remember what Momma said about those yesterday?" I asked.

Charlotte only thought for a moment before answering. "She said not to ask Gramma and Granpa for shells when I see them."

"That's right. Do you remember why?"

"'Cause it's not polite."

I nodded. "And why is important to be polite?"

"'Cause it's nice."

"Yes. We want to be nice, don't we?"

"'Course, Daddy!" Her tone was sincere.

"And when we're polite and nice, it makes others feel good. If we aren't polite, it makes other people feel bad." I paused until I saw the slight furrowing of her brow that told me she comprehended this. "To be polite, we don't talk about differences between people. It wouldn't be very nice for you to tell Momma how well your hair curls when we know that hers doesn't, right?"

She gave me a nod.

"And it wouldn't be polite to tell Auntie Angela or Uncle Ben or any of the children how my skin doesn't get cut easily or how it sparkles in the sunshine."

"'Cause they'd feel bad that theirs don't," she finished.

I hugged her. "You're my sweetest girl," I praised. "I love you so much."

"Love you, too, Daddy," she said, snuggling against me.

I was not idealistic enough to think that the issue of my uniqueness had been permanently settled. My daughter was bright and inquisitive; she would have more questions in the future. But her relaxed posture and content expression told me that for the moment she was satisfied with our discussion. That was all that I had hoped for, and I felt satisfied, too.

* * *

The next morning, Bella sat on the sofa sewing. Her feet were propped on an ottoman; I still wanted her to keep pressure off of her tender soles. She was a relatively cooperative patient, as long as I brought her the items she needed to create a new set of kitchen curtains.

I had told her about my conversation with Charlotte, and she was relieved that it had gone well. This morning my wife was calm and appeared well-rested.

Charlotte's feet remained tender, too, of course. I tried to keep her occupied with various quiet activities that she and I could do sitting down, but she was an exuberant child, and she grew restless as the morning wore on.

She and I had just finished cutting out some paper dolls when I heard the distant purr of an engine. I smiled, recognizing the sound of Carlisle's automobile. My parents had returned from their seaside sojourn. Their presence was very welcome.

Bella looked up from her sewing as the motor car pulled up to the house.

"Is it Carlisle and Esme?" she asked me.

I nodded, swinging Charlotte up into my arms as I stood.

"Gramma and Grandpa!" my daughter squealed excitedly.

I bent to kiss Bella's cheek quickly then, grinning, said to Charlotte, "I bet they'll be glad to see you."

She nodded enthusiastically. I carried her to the front door, opening it to greet my smiling parents.

"Welcome home," I said.

"Gramma! Grandpa!" Charlotte reached for Carlisle, who easily took her into his arms, kissing her cheeks.

Esme and I embraced, then she stepped back, her gaze focused on her granddaughter. She had noticed the bandages on Charlotte's feet. Carlisle had noticed them too, of course, his expression shifting to one of concern as he touched her ankle.

"What happened?" he asked.

"There was a fire," Charlotte began to explain, "in the kitchen. An' a bowl broked, an' my feets got cut, an' so did Momma's, but Daddy fixed them."

"Oh my goodness," Esme exclaimed softly. "Edward, is Bella all right?"

"She's fine," I replied quickly. "Her feet are tender, so she's sitting in the parlor, but I know she's eager to see you."

Esme cupped Charlotte's cheeks in her hands, gazing at her deeply for a moment before kissing her brow. Then she hurried inside.

Carlisle's expression was sober now, although he still held Charlotte tenderly. "How serious was the fire?" he asked.

"It burned the curtains and damaged one of the walls," I said, then in a low murmur added, "I didn't get downstairs fast enough… I was in the bath…"

Carlisle placed a hand on my shoulder, squeezing softly. "But they're both all right?"

"Yes, thank God."

He gave me a nod then asked Charlotte, "How do your feet feel, darling?"

"They only hurts a little," she answered pluckily.

He kissed her cheek again. "I'm glad. Let's go inside and see your Momma."

I knew he was anxious to determine for himself that Bella was relatively unharmed. We joined Bella and Esme in the parlor. After several hugs and words of concern and reassurance, Esme settled on the sofa beside Bella with Charlotte in her lap.

Carlisle motioned for me to follow him into the kitchen. He surveyed the room for a few moments, then said, "You did a fine job with the repairs, son."

"Thank you." I took a breath. "When I saw the flames—when I saw Bella and Charlotte in here, in the smoke—and then when I realized they'd both been cut… My God, Carlisle, what if I hadn't been here?"

"But you were," he replied steadily. "You took care of your family." His golden eyes met mine, and I saw the pride and confidence he had in me.

I exhaled slowly. "I tried."

"You succeeded."

We stood silently for several seconds, then he turned toward the foyer, clapping me gently on the back. "Help me bring in a few things?" he requested. "We have some treats for Charlotte."

I nodded. As we passed the parlor, I paused to tell Bella, "We'll be back in a few moments. We're just going outside to get some things from the motor car."

Charlotte's eyes widened, and she clapped her little hands together in anticipation. Her mouth opened, then she froze, her gaze catching mine. "Oh," she whispered to herself, "_polite_."

Bella didn't hear the soft words, but Esme did. She gave me a curious look, but I merely smiled. My daughter remembered our conversation from the previous day. I held her gaze and said, "Thank you, princess."

She nodded then returned her attention to her grandmother. Carlisle and I walked outside into the warm sunshine.

"What was that all about?" he inquired gently.

"I'll tell you about it soon," I promised. "Right now, though, I think my little girl deserves to see what goodies you've brought her from the shore."

As I reached for the handle on the automobile door, the sun glittered against my fingers. I did not try to suppress the smile of relief that spread across my face. My family was together and well, and the future appeared rosy indeed.

* * *

_The End... for now? _

_Thank you to everyone who has followed Edward and Bella through the 'Solitude" world. This tale wouldn't have been told if it weren't for all of you!  
_


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